


Foolish, Selfish

by Arcanista



Series: Our Own Sins [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fluff, Foreshadowing, POV Blackwall, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Saucy but not smutty, god I hope croissants exist in dragon age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over breakfast, Inquisitor Lavellan broaches a delicate issue with Blackwall...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foolish, Selfish

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend, and this way I can fold in something I wanted to deal with in a later piece. You know who you are. :)

Blackwall lingers in the Inquisitor's bedchambers these days, far more than he ever used to. Oh, he always stayed the night before, for her sake and his, but even in Skyhold there was always so much to do, places he had to be. Now this place is a refuge to him, in a way it never was before. Skyhold is too small for any news to stay silent for long, and everyone has opinions.

Of course, everyone has assholes, too. Right now, he likes those better, because no one is making him look at them. Half the merchants in town refuse his money, look ready to spit in his beard. Half don't, but that just makes it worse, never being able to tell. He goes out to train the new recruits, as before, but now they're distracted in new ways. He leaves later every day. Iskia notices, of course. That woman notices everything. She never says a word. He still doesn't understand how she can read so much from just a glance, even when she tries to explain it.

He thinks himself a fool for dwelling on such things, when she lies nestled in his arms, pressed to his chest. He always wakes before her, but never disturbs her, just holds her close and tight. He's never known a woman who wanted to be held as she slept before. Her dreams are a part of it, of course. But something about her craves being held, craves it in a way unlike anything else she asks-- demands-- of him. As if it is somehow a weakness in a world that needs only strength from her.

Eventually, with sunlight drifting over the blankets, she stirs. Her first move is always closer, as if that were physically possible. "Mmn," her voice is so muzzy, before she's awake, before she's set her masks on. He treasures that tiny sound, and kisses her hair.

"Here," he whispers into her long ear, pulls the tip between his lips.

"Morning," she whispers. Her hands rise to his shoulders, squeezing them. She hardly needs to push for him to roll onto his back. He melts before her. She lowers her head over his, kisses him as her hair falls down around his face. He leans up, kisses her in return, moustache pressing beneath her nose. His arms slip around her waist, squeezing. She is so warm against him, warm and smooth. One hand slides down to her backside, cups and squeezes one firm cheek. She makes another sound, and presses her nails into his shoulders. "Naughty... but the calendar's full this morning. Armour fitting." She leans in, licks his lips, slowly. "But think about where your hand is. Squeeze it, good and hard. I want you to think about that all day long. Tonight, mm, how about you tell me your favourite thought?"

"You're a cruel woman," Blackwall says, when she finally gives him room to breathe. But he squeezes, hard as she asks of him, enough to leave a mark. She sighs, writhing against him, before she slides off. He sits up when she's finally away from him, watches her stretch her arms. She moves like a cat sometimes.

"You just noticed now?" she says over her shoulder, already on her way to the closet. "Come on, my sweet. Get dressed, would you? Much as I love the notion of my trophy Warden tied naked, to my bed all day long, I think I fancy breakfast on the balcony this morning, and you might catch a chill."

"The crulest of women," he corrects, but rises to collect his clothing, scattered around the room from last night. He rubs his wrists before he picks up his shirt. Doesn't like much holding them these days, not since the prison, but if Iskia uses anything at all, she uses these delicate silk ribbons. More often than not, it is her voice alone that holds him. Her commands so sweet, strong as steel.

Her dress is little more than a slip, in a dark, rich violet. His breath catches when he sees her in it. She so rarely wears such things that it always surprises him. And when he sees her triumphant smile, he knows she picked it for him.

They take their breakfast on a little table, out on the balcony. He holds her hand lightly, as she spreads marmalade on her croissant. She always eats lightly in the morning, and far too much fruit for his tastes. He toys with a plum as he watches her, before devouring it in three sweet bites. He tosses the pit over the side of the balcony.

Three packets of herbs sit by a teapot, filled with steaming water. Iskia lifts one, shakes it, taps it with one finger. But rather than add it to the pot to steep, she says, "I've... been thinking about something."

She is never so hesitant. Blackwall looks up to her face, tries to read it, but he cannot. "About what?" he asks.

Iskia slides her hand away, looks down at her croissant. Then she presses the packet toward him and says, "I'd like to stop taking these."

Blackwall doesn't know much about these teas she drinks in the mornings, beyond that one is supposed to be good for the tremors in her hands. He picks up the folded paper pouch, reads the hand-written label on it. He isn't sure what he's supposed to be seeing, until something twinges at the back of his mind. Overheard conversations between women, nothing he paid attention to, but-- "Is this... what I think it is?" he asks. He isn't sure if he wants to be wrong or not.

"It's the-- preventatives, yes," says Iskia. She speaks it as lightly as can be, but she starts nibbling her croissant like a mouse. Her cheeks are brightly flushed as soon as she speaks the words.

But she is so roundabout. "If you stop," he says, her uncertainty catching in him too. "I could-- get you with child." Surely that is not what she means. She loves him, despite everything, but this? Surely not.

"That's the idea," she says, cheeks going brighter. She can't even meet his eyes now; instead she looks off over the balcony. "I'd been thinking about it, I said. It's... well. It's selfish, is what it is. But in this I'll accede to your wishes: tell me no, and I'll keep taking them."

Oh. _Oh_. "I... never really pictured myself as a father," he says, and it is true. Too young to consider it, at first, then too selfish, and too cowardly. Too much on the run from what he'd done. And recently? Too trapped by his own secrets. Too much an object of disgust and anger, now. No one would ever consider it.

"Nor I a mother," Iskia says, and looks back to him, searching his face. "But with you, I find that I want that very thing. I want it desperately." She slowly, deliberately adds the other two packets to the teapot. "Does that... does it bother you?"

"No," Blackwall says it before he even thinks about it. He pauses, leans back, a bit away from his swift reaction. Then he says, "No. No, it doesn't bother me. It's just nothing I'd been able to think about now. I'm not sure I still can now. What about the war? If you went into battle-- like that, or if our enemies found out..." Of course she's thought about them. She wouldn't have brought it up if she hadn't. But he needs to know.

"Well-- it would have to take, first. There's no guarantees. Not even if I were human. Really, nothing happening is the most likely outcome." She smiles to him, but her lower lip trembles faintly. It stills, after a second or two. "Still-- you're right. But how long is this liable to go on? Cullen tells me we'll be ready to move on the Wilds within two weeks. As far as anyone can tell the bulk of Corypheus' remaining forces are there. What are the chances I'd even be showing by the time this is over?"

Blackwall reaches across the table, brushes a strand of hair from Iskia's face. "If there's one thing I've seen more of than you," he says, "it's war. And you shouldn't bet so heavily on one ending when you need it to." She turns her face into his hand, exhaling.

"I'm not willing to put myself or-- or our child into that sort of danger, no," she murmurs. "If that's what it comes down to, well. Priorities are what they are."

Tactfully put. "Well, then," Blackwall says. "What about after? What about the-- Joining?"

"Assuming you survive," Iskia says with a shrug, "you'll be back by my side as soon as the Wardens permit. I'm not going to step on their feet in the matter-- as much because it's a duty I know you'll take seriously-- but even as a Warden, there's things only you can do, and ways only you can serve them here. They'll see that. If you d... don't make it. Then... I have something to remember you by. Which sounds foolish when I say it, but. Something from you..." She avoids his eyes.

Is that why she really wants this, then? Blackwall lifts a hand, scratching beneath the beard. "How long have you been thinking about this?" If she means it about listening to him, and if she just wants it out of fear, then he will tell her no. He must.

"A while," she says. "Since before-- Val Royeaux, anyway. Everyone's naming their children after me. It, I can't forget about it. It got me thinking." She sighs, looks down, and finishes her croissant. "It's foolish. Of course it's foolish. But I've been over it... a lot. I wouldn't raise something like this without having given it due consideration. But it's why I want to at least... open the potentiality now."

He lifts her chin, holding it between two strong fingers. "And you'd trust me with our child, after everything that happened?" Of course she does. She wouldn't ask, if she didn't. "And how would it look? I'm not exactly a popular man. And you know that--" he sighs. "You know I can't ask to marry you. If I could, I'd be on my knees before you right now."

She closes her eyes, lets her chin rest in his hand. "I would trust you more than anyone else in all the world with a child." He takes heart from that, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Iskia continues, "But you're right. Less about who you were. More about who you will be. There are... _politics_." For the first time, he hears her say the word with contempt. "If I were to wed a Warden, it would be a political incident I don't care to court. And I-- I hate to say it, but there's an advantage to remaining unwed. People approach with marriage proposals. Even a rejection can come with a counter-offer. Make no mistake: it will _always_  be a rejection. I will wed you, or I will wed no one, and so: it _must_  be no one." She sighs. "But despite all of that, I still raise the issue because of this: I know that any child between us will be loved above all else."

She takes his hand between both of hers, kisses the backs of his fingers. "It's foolish. Selfish. I know."

"No," he whispers. "It's not foolish. It's none of those things. I love you, Iskia. You've offered me things I'd never dreamed I could have. This is just one more thing."

She smiles for him, sweet and beautiful. She gestures to the packet, red nails gleaming in the morning light. "I'll let you do the honours, then."

He can never deny her, in the end. He rises, the packet in hand. One more glance to her, looking to her smile, and then he tears it open, releasing the herbs onto the wind.


End file.
